


These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You)

by nat_scribbles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Contest Entry, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Teenlock, Tumblr: fuckyeahteenlock, fuckyeahteenlock historical au contest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nat_scribbles/pseuds/nat_scribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Historical AU set in the second half of the 1930s.</p><p>John gets a worrying letter and decides to join the International Brigades to help out in the Spanish Civil War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You)

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to my lovely (and sassy) beta Travellingthestars. She beta'd this in record time despite the short notice and did an amazing job of it. She deserves all the awards.
> 
> As always, the characters aren't mine, I'm just having fun with them, and English isn't my first language, please excuse any mistakes.
> 
> Enjoy!

The wind ruffled the pages of the letter, lifting a faint smell of orange blossoms and pine needles. John clutched the paper firmly in his hand, crinkling it slightly as he stared tight-lipped at the words written in broken English. He sighed and leaned forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, as he absentmindedly thumbed over the signature of his friend.  He reread the last few lines again.

 

_I think that it is best that you would not come this summer._

_Tuyo,_

_Miguel_

 

There had to be something he could do, some way he could help them out. This was all just wrong.

 

“John!”

 

His sister’s voice shook him out of his reverie and he straightened up again, turning to look at her over his shoulder. Blond curls framed her face and bounced as she approached. John supposed she could be pretty if she wanted to. Of course, she wasn’t when she was stomping towards him, her face twisted in a scowl. He heaved a sigh.

 

“Stop being a bloody lazy sod for one damn minute and come help out!”

 

A woman passing by gasped, scandalized. Harry couldn’t care less about being polite or speaking like a lady. He supposed he should be thankful she hadn’t started drinking yet. He gave the woman an apologetic smile and stood up, tucking the letter inside the breast pocket of his jacket and following his sister.

 

“Yes, yes, coming…”

 

For all he sometimes complained, he quite liked helping his father out. He wanted to become a doctor, just like his father and grandfather before him. He supposed it was family tradition, and he was proud to follow it. He wasn’t squeamish about blood, bile, or bone. He still remembered the first time he’d been introduced to the gruesome sight of exposed bones. There had been an accident with a horse cart right outside their front door and a kid a couple of years older had broken his leg when it got caught in the wheel. As his father worked frantically and did his best to help, he sneaked glances at the gory mess that was the boy’s injured leg. He found it quite fascinating, really, the splintered bone peeking out beneath the torn muscle. The screams and wails of the kid were much less easy to tolerate.

 

In recent years, his family’s practice hadn’t been short of patients. The lack of money drove people to local doctors like his father because hospitals were too expensive. Now, at almost seventeen, the pressure to assist was high; he helped with the minor surgeries his father completed, and had on occasion been left to deal with more minor incidents alone. He knew how to fix people’s ailments, their aches, pains, and illnesses, and it pleased him. It made him feel useful, needed.

 

Stepping into the building, he took off his jacket and rolled the sleeves of his shirt. From the sound of it, it wasn’t a broken leg, but a colicky baby. Bugger.

 

***

 

He told the news to their family over dinner. He had been thinking about it for months. The idea had been abstract at first, but Miguel’s letter a few weeks ago had been the last straw. Knowing that he was safely at home while his friends’ rights and liberties were threatened sickened him. He had to do something, he had to help out.

 

His mother’s eyes filled with tears and Harry kicked him under the table, muttering about ‘golden boys’ and ‘bloody heroes’. His father ran a hand through his hair and complained about being left alone at the practice, but John could tell he wouldn’t oppose him. He wasn’t a Watson for nothing, stubbornness ran strong in the family. His grandfather looked at him approvingly, a proud shine in his eyes. He had fought in the Great War, he had been a soldier, up until he’d been shot in the shoulder. Then he had worked as a doctor and married his late grandmother Mary.

 

“You go do what you have to do, son.”

 

John smiled. Now he only had to tell Sherlock. He was not looking forward to it.

 

***

 

“… you can tell by the dust on her shoes, look closely, see? She was obviously on the other side of the river, but not a fancy neighbourhood, and… John? John are you listening? JOHN!”

 

John jumped a little and smiled apologetically at his friend. “Er… that was brilliant?”

 

Sherlock scowled and slouched on the bench, pouting. Not that the boy would ever admit he was pouting. John suppressed a chuckle. He _had_ been spacing out and not paying attention to Sherlock, he supposed he deserved a bit of sulking. He sighed. “Sorry.”

 

Sherlock snorted and looked the other way. John was terribly tempted to poke his ribs. He remembered the first time he had done so, with no ill intention whatsoever. His father had been called to the manor to stay for the summer as a doctor because the Holmes’ elder son was ill. His family had always been close to the Holmes’, what with his grandfather being friends with Sherlock’s great uncle. Or something like that. The Holmes family had always been too large for John to keep track. Sherlock and John had taken to each other almost immediately, running around the house, playing pirates (John would always choose to be on the side of Queen and Country, even if it was _dull_ and _boring_ ), and driving Mrs. Hudson, their nanny, absolutely insane.

 

On one of the days where Mycroft was feeling worse than usual, Sherlock decided to be quiet and spend the afternoon in the library. Not that he would ever admit to doing it for his brother’s sake, god forbid. They had been laying around lazily on the sofa, which was big enough for both of them if they rested on opposite ends of it with their heads on the armrests, and as John shifted, he accidentally poked Sherlock’s ribs with his foot. The boy had squealed and arched his back impossibly. What a great discovery it had been. He had spent the rest of the afternoon (and many more after that) tickling Sherlock until Mrs. Hudson had to bribe them with biscuits to be quiet and not to make more noise.

 

“Sherlock, I…” he licked his lips. He should tell him now. Now was as good a moment as ever. Really, it wasn’t as if he was going to change his mind. It was stupid to hide it from his best friend. Why would he? No, he had to tell him. Now. Yes, right now. Now was good. Right.

 

“What?”

 

John locked eyes with Sherlock for a moment. God he had beautiful eyes, all grey and blue and green and yellow and… He’d tell him.

 

“Nothing.”

 

He’d tell him. In a minute. Probably.

 

***

 

“I’m joining the brigades.”

 

They were sitting at their usual bench at the park as Sherlock deduced the ins and outs of the people that passed by. It had been really quiet for a while though and John had been staring at nothing, deep in thought, when he said it almost absent-mindedly, without noticing. It probably wasn’t the best way to tell him, but it was too late to change it now.

 

Sherlock frowned, cocking his head to the side slightly to look at him. “Right, yes. The brigades. Of course.”

 

John couldn’t help but smile fondly at the puzzled look. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t know what was going on around him, he couldn’t even bother to remember that the earth went around the sun. Besides, politics and anything resembling them had been banned from his mind since Mycroft had started working for the government, which was _dull_ and _boring_ and was _only serving to make his large bottom even larger_.

 

“The International Brigades, Sherlock. We are… well, we volunteer to go help out and fight to preserve people’s rights and… er... yeah…” he trailed off, seeing Sherlock’s frown deepen.

 

“International.”

 

John nodded. “Yes.”

 

“And you said you fight.”

 

John nodded again. “Well, yes, it’s to…”

“’Preserve people’s rights’.” Sherlock finished with a sneer.

 

John could almost hear the quotation marks. It was his turn to frown. “Yes. Problem?”

 

Sherlock turned to look at him. “You are not going anywhere.”

 

John raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

 

“Don’t make me repeat myself, it’s endlessly boring and you heard me perfectly well. Let Mycroft be the one to stick his overly large nose in foreign politics.”

 

John could feel his temper rising. Who was Sherlock to tell him what he should or shouldn’t do? He had to help those people, he had to help his friends. It was the right thing to do. “Well, tough, because I am leaving for Spain in three days.” He said a little more forcefully than was entirely necessary.

 

“Three days?!” Sherlock stood up abruptly and began pacing in front of the bench, nervous energy radiating off his body.

 

John was tempted to mock Sherlock about repeating what he’d said so much, but instead he just nodded and crossed his arms, tilting his chin defiantly.

 

“You can’t go!” Sherlock turned sharply towards John and stepped towards him, scowling. He loomed over the blonde, forcing him to raise his head at an almost painful angle, as he gestured almost manically with his hands. “Don’t be such an idiot! Use your head for once!”

 

Well that was it, that was all John was taking from him. He stood up, forcing Sherlock to take a step back. He missed those days when they were younger and he was taller than his friend, but he could damn well stand his ground. He planted his feet and crossed his arms again. “You know, it’d be nice to have a little support form my best friend!”

 

Sherlock huffed. “If you think I’m going to support such an idiotic ideology… Saving people?! Protecting rights? You think you’ll make the blindest bit of difference?!”

 

“It’s not idiotic! I have to help them!”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, of course. ‘Saint John the caring’ has to save everyone, including some… _strangers_.” He practically spat the last word.

 

John was almost shaking with fury. He didn’t mind when Harry mocked him, not anymore, but Sherlock’s words stung more than he cared to admit. “They are my friends!”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the words, grimacing. “You barely know them.”

 

“I know them enough. I’m going.”

 

“Oh really? To do what? You are sixteen!”

 

John gritted his teeth. “Almost seventeen and I have plenty of medical knowledge. I can help out, be useful.”

 

“You can be useful here!”

 

John snorted. “Oh really? Because they need me. Do _you_ need me?”

 

Sherlock went uncharacteristically quiet and John could hear his ragged breathing. He licked his lips, waiting for an answer, and holding his breath unconsciously.

 

“No.”

 

That hurt. John swallowed drily and tried not to wince. He felt as if his friend’s words had been a punch directed to the gut. But really, what had he been expecting? As if Sherlock would ever say yes. No, he was the great Sherlock Holmes and he needed no one because no one could compete with his massive intellect. John narrowed his eyes slightly. “Thought so. You know where to find me if you decide that you don’t feel like being an arsehole anymore.” He said, turning around and walking away with brisk steps, fists clenching rhythmically at his sides.

 

He hadn’t even made it halfway home before he was regretting what he’d said. He had put Sherlock in a tight spot there and he knew it. Would he have answered any differently? Probably not. Both of them were too proud for that. John knew he shouldn’t have insulted him, that he shouldn’t be walking away. He also knew staying and arguing further would only make matters worse. He ran a hand through his hair and down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was angry. He still was. He was angry at himself for having hurt Sherlock because he knew of his friend’s vulnerability. He felt like he had betrayed the boy’s trust. He had been allowed inside the walls the teen built around him and he had insulted him. But he was also angry at Sherlock. He had known he wouldn’t like the news, but he had been hoping he’d support him. Instead, his so-called best friend had made fun of him, of his values. He had mocked him and ridiculed him. He had belittled the need his friends were in. John clenched his jaw and continued walking, anger and guilt eating at him.

 

***

 

John looked at the bags packed by the door and glanced at the clock nervously.  It was almost dawn, he really had to go. He glanced out of the window again. He shouldn’t have expected Sherlock to say goodbye, see him off, he should have known better. Slowly, he grabbed his bags and closed the door behind himself. He began to walk down the street, not looking back; and so he missed the tall silhouette of a man in a long coat leaning against a tree, a little way back from the road, out of sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fuckyeahteenlock historical AU contest.
> 
>  
> 
> Translations from Spanish  
> Tuyo: Yours
> 
>  
> 
> Title from Benny Goodman's song


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